[my mother used to say that there was a path i could follow
beat the dirt, the violence of trying to blend in and make a place for yourself in this world
i’d argue, with my youthful innocent mouth
that there were wheatfields in which to skim your hand
gently planting new seeds in the dry sand
but it turns out it didn’t matter who was right
i’m far far away from the land
and she is six feet under it.
i was never able to contain myself in the cupped palms of my shaky hands
i could never hold anything
holding on to nothing
i was far far from the ground floating in thin air
everything leaving me for the current of the wind
imaginary friends and painful illusions
i fear the moment when i crash down
because on earth there are things i can’t comprehend
i’m not familiar with its sounds. is it like a whistle? some say it’s like butterflies flapping their wings but you know butterflies only live for one day?!
i don’t know its taste. people taste each other but touch my skin you’ll think i’m soft, touch my soul within and i’ll run away.
happiness and long-term planning
it scares me to death
what if it does smell like death and the stench lingers and lingers.
everything on the ground looks scary. i can only guess the pitch of the alarm everyone is supposed to recognize as a warning
but i wouldn’t get it and the wolves would come at me. me. them feasting.
it scares me to death. the landing
i’m not ready for anything. not even the good feelings.
i’m not ready to come back to the atmosphere because that means i’ll have to work on healing.
i’m not ready.]
© Elliot Schalmis and Trees can never be seeds again, 2018. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Elliot Schalmis and Trees can never be seeds again with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.